At exactly 3 o'clock on Thursday afternoon, a tall, mustachioed man in a cream tuxedo jacket emerged from a brick building behind London's Borough Market. He greeted the group of 20-somethings that had lined up behind blue velvet ropes and, one-by-one, directed us down into what seemed like a dungeon. Ominous organ music scored our descent, and the spiral staircase was nearly pitch black.
"I feel like I'm walking to my death," a man behind me muttered to his friends. Minutes later, we were wearing hooded plastic ponchos and wandering around a thick, white cloud of vaporized alcohol. Some tried to take selfies, others sipped cocktails out of halved human skulls. Everyone was breathing deeply.
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